


Bonded

by Guanin



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst, Depressed Crowley (Good Omens), Depression, During and, M/M, Mention of suicide ideation, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Sharing a Body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 22:04:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20316727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guanin/pseuds/Guanin
Summary: Aziraphale had almost died, almost fucking died, and now he was sharing Crowley's body, his spirit surrounding Crowley, a loving, pulsing presence right in the very heart of him. He had never been this close to Aziraphale before, had never dreamed that it would be possible. He was sorely glad that he didn’t need to breathe, for he wouldn’t be able to manage it with Aziraphale’s presence making him feel drunk and mellow. It was a miracle that he could drive at all. Aziraphale had grafted himself onto Crowley’s soul, the border between them permeable and merging at the edges a little more with every second that passed by.





	Bonded

“Pity I can’t inhabit your body,” Aziraphale said.

A sharp exhale shook Crowley’s body. He hadn’t meant to, but his emotions had been stuck in a shredder since Aziraphale cast him aside at the bandstand, and he had no energy to hold anything back anymore. 

“Why not?” he asked without even thinking about it. “Let’s give it a go.”

Aziraphale gaped at a spot at Crowley’s right in surprise, his eyes widening in fear.

“But…” he stuttered. “We can’t. It’s too risky.”

“The world is literally ending. What’s one more risk added to the pile? What have we got to lose?”

“Your body, for one. It might explode. You can’t go to hell to get another one. And who knows what would happen if angelic and demonic spirits inhabited the same body.”

“We will in a minute if you let us give it a go. This is an emergency. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and nothing can possibly be more desperate than this. You can’t just drop into whatever body you fancy. The human needs to be receptive to it, and it’s not easy finding one who is. Who knows how long it will take you.”

Aziraphale grimaced, whining softly, spiritual hands flapping worriedly in his lap. 

“But it might go horribly wrong,” he said. Pleaded, more like. “Everything is going wrong today.”

“So we’re due for something to go right, aren’t we? Come on. How are we going to save the world with that attitude?”

Aziraphale looked around where he perceived Crowley to be, accidentally meeting his eyes for an aching second. He squeezed his lips in a pout, but Crowley could see him breaking. 

_Come on, angel. You can’t leave me again._

Aziraphale groaned, throwing his incorporeal head back. 

“Oh, all right,” he said. “But if I feel your body start to disintegrate, I’m getting out immediately.”

Relief flooded Crowley’s being. Grateful, he stretched out his right hand, reaching for Aziraphale.

“Deal. Come on, then. In you go.”

Aziraphale thrust his hand blindly forward. Crowley met him halfway. The instant that he came into contact with his spirit, the world melted in a fury of screaming dizziness. Crowley fell against the table with a loud crack, agony tearing through his body as Aziraphale’s spirit rushed into him like an F5 tornado ripping through a house. His skin burned, his flesh afire, the flames swelling up to the ceiling only to vanish in the same instant. Crowley was the one screaming. He and Aziraphale both, melding in one voice. He fell back against the chair, wings stretched out so far that it hurt, raised in the air with a violent flapping of wings as he struggled to squirm out of his own body. 

Christ, it _hurt_. The grace of God hadn’t touched him in millennia. He was being boiled alive.

Then it stopped. Silence descended. His flesh cooled, a healing torrent of water pouring into every cell of his body and soul. The fire extinguished itself. He crashed to the ground, body splayed on the hard floor, panting so hard that his lungs might burst. Aziraphale’s discomfort pressed against his, but his spirit no longer ached like a knife shoved between his ribs. His spirit encapsulated Crowley’s own, weaving through it, connections that had first smarted now cooling and settling into a comfortable hold, as if he were hugging Aziraphale to him in a snug embrace. Yet it went so much deeper than that. A loud sob escaped his throat as he clutched Aziraphale to him, soaking in his warmth, his vitality, his unmistakable essence. He had thought him gone, whether discorporated or killed outright, he didn’t know, but terror had filled him at the possibility that he might never see him again. Without Aziraphale, what was the point of living? What was the point of anything? He hadn’t known existence without him for 6,000 years and he was not prepared to ever go back to that wretched state. Tears stung his eyes, heavy and hot as they seared his cheeks. 

Concern swelled in his chest from Aziraphale’s spirit. Crowley experienced his confusion and distress as if they were his own. Aziraphale nudged Crowley’s mouth open and moved his tongue to form words.

“Are you alright?”

Aziraphale’s voice emerged from Crowley’s throat, identical in every detail. Crowley tried to control his breathing and stop crying. Now wasn’t the time for this, not with Aziraphale able to feel his emotions, too.

“I’ve been better,” Crowley said, voice raw and sore in his throat. “You? Is this ringing in my ears only me or can you hear it, too?”

“I can hear it. Were you screaming earlier? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Yup, that was me. But you were screaming, too, weren’t you? I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have suggested this if I had known that would happen.”

“Well, I did warn you.”

Couldn’t Aziraphale lay off the disapproval for two seconds? And using Crowley’s own mouth to berate him. That was just mean. 

“I didn’t explode,” Crowley said. “So it’s fine.”

Hadn’t there been people at this pub? It was empty now. They must have all run out. Oh yeah, he had heard other people screaming, hadn’t he? It had all been so loud. He couldn’t have possibly kept track of what was what.

“You are okay, right?” Crowley asked, touching his sodden shirt. He had spilled his drink all over himself. 

Aziraphale shifted inside him. Gah, that was weird! He wasn’t even corporeal. How could Crowley feel him moving inside him as if he were wearing Crowley like a suit?

“I think so,” Aziraphale said cautiously. “I feel hot. Not unbearably so, but you do run at a higher body temperature than I do. I should have thought of that. You are a demon, after all.”

Crowley jerked upright.

“Is that why you were screaming? Was it the fire that hurt you? It’s not hellfire. I can’t just produce it like that.”

“It did hurt, but I’m afraid that I hurt you, too. My… Well, I hesitate to call it holiness now.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t great. But it’s loads better now. I feel this, I don’t know, warm effervescence, but it’s kinda pleasant. It’s weird. Hang on, why don’t you want to call it holiness? That’s exactly what it is.”

“I’m not so sure anymore.”

Aziraphale was shrinking into himself, embarrassment emanating from his spirit. Then came a much darker feeling, a morass of shame, disappointment, and betrayal so thick that Crowley choked on it. What the heaven was that?!

“You’re not sure?” he asked, his voice high pitched. “Your holiness was burning me from the inside out. I can tell you, you’re as holy as they come. What’s brought this on?”

Crowley felt as much as heard Aziraphale sigh, desperate for an answer.

“Later, alright? We have an apocalypse to avert right now, and we’ve gotten distracted enough as it is.”

Aziraphale’s urgency to flee the subject made Crowley’s skin crawl and his stomach churn with discomfort. His own? Aziraphale’s? Both? He couldn’t tell. Crowley grit his teeth, snarling.

“Fine, but we will discuss this later. You can’t hide away from me now, angel.”

Crowley moved to stand up, but Aziraphale tried to stand him up at the same time, crashing them back to the floor as his legs tangled around each other.

“Ow,” they groaned together. 

“Sorry,” Aziraphale said, suitably apologetic.

“It’s my body. Let me take the lead.”

“Quite right. I’m truly sorry.”

As if it wasn’t enough that Aziraphale kept backseat driving in the Bentley. Oh Christ, it was going to be even worse now.

“You better not pull back on the accelerator when I’m driving. It’s my car.”

“Of course. Just don’t run over anyone else, will you?”

Grumbling, Crowley stood up. He jerked back upon catching his reflection in the mirror behind the bar, crying out.

“What the fuck?!” he cried.

“Oh dear me,” Aziraphale said almost simultaneously. 

Aziraphale jerked in equal shock, dropping Crowley’s mouth open as they gaped at Crowley’s—their—reflection. Crowley’s hair had gone white blonde, his left eye the brightest cerulean, the pupil round, and his wings where a mishmash of black and white, like someone had poured white paint on them haphazardly. He smelled differently. He raised his hand, sniffing his wrist. Yup, no scent of hellish brimstone. It was all soft lavender from heaven. 

“Please tell me this is reversible,” Crowley moaned, tugging at his hair, trying to turn it red, but the color wouldn’t budge. He shook his wings, with equal lack of success. 

“I, I don’t know,” Aziraphale said. “You’ll probably go back to your old self once I find another body. I still think I should do that now. There’s no reason to put you through this.”

Panic screamed inside Crowley.

“You stay right where you are, you hear me? Don’t you dare leave. Not again.”

Aziraphale stopped moving, if you could call it that. Startled concern pulsed from him again. 

“Alright,” he said, his voice so low that Crowley more felt it than heard it. “I will stay with you, my dear.”

Crowley’s heart ached at the familiar token of affection.

“You better. We’ll work this out. After we avert the apocalypse, if we do.”

“We will. Ifs are not allowed.”

“Fine. When we avert the apocalypse, we’ll find you another body. Until then, I’ll just cover this up.”

With a click of his fingers, Crowley miracled his hair red and his left eye yellow and slitted. It was only a mask. They remained the same underneath, but at least he didn’t look like something had gone horribly wrong at the salon. But the color of his wings refused to shift one bit. He clicked his fingers again and waved his hands over them, grabbing them and growling, “Black, bless you! Turn black!”. 

Pain blazed through him. Aziraphale and he screamed as the wings caught fire in a blazing inferno that filled the pub. They crashed against the bar, barely holding on with desperate fingers. Blinding light blinded them again, heavenly radiance shining as brightly as the hottest star. Far too slowly, the light died down. They fell on the floor, panting. 

“What the hell was that?” Aziraphale groaned.

Crowley’s chest heaved, his vision a blurry mess. Red burned behind his right eye, injured from the light explosion, while his left eye, his angelic eye, bless it all, stung from the fire.

“I have no idea,” Crowley said, gasping. 

“Just leave the wings alone, will you please?”

Crowley winced at Aziraphale’s peeved tone. It stung so much worse now that it emanated from within Crowley’s own body. 

“Fine,” he grumbled, folding his wings away and out of sight. Their wings, rather, for those feathers were as angelic as they were demonic. Like their eyes. which needed to be concealed again, because the freaky fire-light explosion had wiped his glamor off. Now the blue eye was slitted while the yellow one had a round pupil, and his hair was pink! Scowling, Crowley passed a hand over his head and restored himself to his regular shape.

“The pink hair didn’t look bad,” Aziraphale said, trying to be helpful. 

“It’s still not my hair.”

He had gone through practically every hairstyle imaginable through the centuries, but he had never once altered the crimson shade of his hair. It was one of the few things that had remained intact from his angelic days. While his green eyes had shifted to yellow and his skin had darkened with the color of soot, stinking of smoke, his hair remained unchanged. He enjoyed tinkering with the texture, straightening out his natural curls when he was in the mood for a change, but he couldn’t stomach leaving that one pillar of constancy behind, nor ever. If his hair wasn’t red, and not only red, but that exact shade of red, he wasn’t himself, but some other demon in a poor costume of Crowley. The pink hue being halfway between his and Aziraphale’s colors provided small comfort when he could feel the wrongness beneath the quick dye job. He was being ridiculous, he knew that. What did he expect would happen to his body by inviting an angelic soul in? So stupid.

“Are you alright, my dear?” Aziraphale asked, concern swirling around Crowley.

Crowley picked up his sunglasses from the floor and covered their eyes, instantly feeling more secure with them on even though there was no hiding anything from Aziraphale.

“I will be,” he said, struggling to calm down so Aziraphale could stop worrying, not that he would. “Just a little shaken up. You?”

“Same. I really do hate to rush you, but we have to get going.”

Crowley nodded.

“Yes, we do.”

````````````````

Aziraphale generously didn’t try to orient Crowley’s movements until Crowley gunned the Bentley’s accelerator and almost hit a pedestrian.

“Would you stop that?” Aziraphale cried, yanking the wheel to the right, climbing onto the pavement and almost hitting a mailbox.

“Oi! Don’t damage the car! You said you wouldn’t do that.”

Aziraphale let go of his arms, practically scowling as Crowley pressed the accelerator even harder as he took a sharp curb. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, not sounding sorry at all, his disapproval burning in Crowley’s chest. Satan, it was like Crowley was disappointed in himself. Their feelings were tangled up. “But could you please not hit someone again?”

“I wasn’t going to. I saw them. You didn’t give me a chance to avoid them.”

Crowley clutched the wheel, his stress levels rising through the roof. Overhead, the sky, which had been darkening steadily as they drove, growled with a peal of thunder so loud that the car shook. Crowley grimaced. That wasn’t a regular storm. It was starting. 

“And stop making me feel like crap,” Crowley said. “You’re making me itchy.”

“I don’t mean to. I can feel your annoyance, too, you know. It’s upsetting.”

“Your annoyance is upsetting, too.”

A thick curtain of rain began pelting the car.

“I think our emotions are influencing each other. I feel cranky. That’s your thing, so it must be you making me feel this way.”

Crowley beeped at a couple to get off the street before he ran them over.

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do about that. If it’s any consolation, I actually feel a little guilty now, and that’s all on you.”

“Well, there’s an upside to this, at least.”

“An upside? We’re supposed to be focusing on the apocalypse. I can’t do that if you’re making me feel bad because I ruined some random human’s day. Which is my job, by the way. Or it was.”

“Just focus on driving without murdering anyone, please? That’s all I’m asking of you.”

Like heaven it was. And how the hell was he supposed to focus with Aziraphale being a frustrating backseat driver in Crowley’s own head? But that wasn’t the only way that he was distracting. Aziraphale had almost died, almost fucking died, and now he was in Crowley and around him, irritating, yes, but also a loving, pulsing presence right in the very heart of him. He had never been this close to Aziraphale before, had never dreamed that it would be possible. He was sorely glad that he didn’t need to breathe, for he wouldn’t be able to manage it with Aziraphale’s presence making him feel drunk and mellow, even as he clenched his jaw with exasperation in their unending, cranky feedback loop. Happy and sad. Cheerful and angry. It was a miracle that he could drive at all with this unbearable tug of war yanking inside him. Aziraphale had grafted himself onto Crowley’s soul, the border between them permeable and merging at the edges a little more with every second that passed by. 

By the time that they hit the traffic jam, Crowley couldn’t keep his hands from trembling. He had to clutch the wheel with both hands just to keep it steady. His eyes began to shut, lids heavy with a weariness shared between him and Aziraphale. Maybe this hadn’t been a good idea, after all. Yet the thought of Aziraphale leaving him made his soul ache. 

“Why have we stopped?” Aziraphale asked, sounding more in control than Crowley. “Is this traffic normal? I don’t think so.”

They had halted in bumper to bumper traffic on the way to the M25. Behind them, cars began to pile up, none of them moving an inch. 

“No, it’s not,” Crowley said, frowning. “It’s got to be part of it.”

He turned on the radio, tuning it to a station that gave traffic updates. A violent bolt of lightning cracked the sky in half in a brilliant blaze of light, the ensuing boom rattling the car’s joints. 

“The storm’s getting worse,” Aziraphale said, stating the obvious. 

“It’s official,” the radio announcer said. “This is the biggest traffic jam in England’s history.”

“Why?” Crowley moaned. 

“Oh dear lord,” Aziraphale said, slouching Crowley’s body into the seat. “It’s what you did to the M25.”

Oh, no.

“No, no, no, no, no, no!” Crowley cried, dropping his head against the wheel. 

Just then, he felt it. The scent of evil in the air, wafting in from two miles in front of them. The sigil Odegra had come into its full power, stoked by the apocalyptic energy drowning the entire world, igniting into a scorching explosion burning the motorway in an impassable ring of infernal death.

“It’s on fire,” Aziraphale said. 

“Yes, it’s on bloody fire. You think I don’t know that?”

“Don’t yell at me about it. I’m not the one who built it.”

“I had to build it. I had to give hell something. Or would you rather that I had started World War III? It would have been easy enough.”

“As if you would have.”

Crowley scowled.

“Fine, so I wouldn’t have. Never mind all that. Can we just focus, please?”

“I would love to focus, if you’d stop being annoyed for two seconds and gave me leave to think.”

“Me stop being annoyed? You’re the one who’s berating me.”

With a vicious turn of the wheel, Crowley pulled onto the shoulder and jammed the accelerator, driving past the unmovable mass of cars. 

“You’re going to try to cross it,” Aziraphale said, amazed. “Is that even possible?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to keep us moving, okay? We’re not going to find a solution to this just sitting back there.”

An ominous, orange glow burned in the horizon, growing as they got closer, its evil spreading across the entirety of London like an invisible malaise. Aziraphale recoiled inside him, fleeing from the edges of Crowley’s body to put a buffer between himself and it. Crowley helped him along, wrapping his soul around him like a shield.

“Come on,” Crowley murmured. “Come on.” 

“There has to be a way across it,” Aziraphale said. 

Crowley grabbed the book and started leafing through it. 

“Burning roads?” he murmured. “Is there anything about this in here?”

The instant that Aziraphale was about to answer, a demonic presence appeared beside them, too quickly for Crowley to react until his sunglasses were plucked from his face. Aziraphale tensed, fear shooting through him and Crowley, who barely swallowed a startled shudder upon seeing Hastur sitting in the passenger seat, calmly breaking his sunglasses in half. 

Fuuuuuck.

“You’ll never escape London,” Hastur said with the iron certainty of a lion with an ibex breaking in its teeth. 

“Hastur,” Crowley said, scrambling to play it cool. “How was your time in voicemail?”

Aziraphale felt very still, not sending as much as an emotion Crowley’s way save for a dull wave of apprehension. Crowley was immensely glad for his moment of vanity back at the pub. If Hastur could see his pink hair and blue eye now, Crowley and Aziraphale were dead. 

“Funny,” Hastur said in a chilly, deadpan tone. “Ha ha. Joke all you like. There’s nowhere to run, Crowley.”

“Aren’t you meant to be lining up, ready for battle around now?”

“Hell will not forget. Hell will not forgive. You know where the real Antichrist is, don’t you? You’ll never reach him. You’re done, Crowley. Do you think you can get across that?” Hastur nodded at the raging inferno in front of them. “There’s nowhere to go.”

Right. Crowley had Aziraphale hiding inside him, a pissed off Duke of Hell in his car, and a ring of fire between him and the end of the world. There was only one thing to be done. He drove forward.

“Why are you driving?” Hastur asked, going from smug to panicked within a second. “Stop this thing.”

Without words, Aziraphale asked the same thing, his flabbergasted worry curdling in Crowley’s stomach. Crowley ignored them both.

“You know,” he said, hysteria cackling inside him, “the thing I like best about time is that every day it takes us further away from the fourteenth century. You would have loved it then. They didn’t have cars back in the fourteenth century.”

Hastur was wriggling in his seat like a mouse caught in a trap. He could leave whenever he liked. Crowley wasn’t stopping him. 

“Lovely, clever human people, inventing cars and motorways and windscreen wipers. You’ve got to hand it to them, haven’t you?”

“Stop this,” Hastur cried out, terrified. “It’s over. You’re doomed. Whatever happens, you’re doomed!”

A mad grin took over Crowley’s face.

“See? This day’s already got better.”

He drove into the wall of fire. Aziraphale squirmed inside him, screaming _Are you insane?!_ straight into Crowley’s mind. Huh. They could communicate telepathically. Good to know. 

_It’s fine,_ Crowley thought back. _Just relax, angel._

“Stop it!” Hastur shrieked. “You’ll discorporate us both. This isn’t funny.”

Well, it wouldn’t be fine for him. He was already smoking from the flames engulfing the car. You couldn’t see anything but furious orange around them, the flames so thick that Crowley’s clothes started to singe. Crowley stamped them out, picturing himself perfectly okay on a perfectly normal, fire-free day, his body whole and healthy in a pristine Bentley driving down Oxford Street.

“Come on!” he cheered. “If you’ve got to go, then go with style.”

Fire burned Hastur into ash as he muttered one last invective.

“I hate you.” 

Poof, he was gone. Crowley gunned the accelerator, zooming through the fire at 100 miles per hour, desperate to reach the closest exit. The car groaned, rubber and leather melting.

“The car is breaking down,” Aziraphale said, frightened.

“No!” Crowley yelled, gritting his teeth. “No, it won’t.”

“It’s on fire!”

“Then help me keep it whole, will you?”

Crowley trembled with the strain of keeping his body and car together. He clutched the wheel so tightly that his bones hurt.

“You are my car,” he told the Bentley. “I’ve had you from new. You are not going to burn. Don’t even think of it.” 

He bared his teeth with a desperate yell. Sweat poured down his body from the heat and his bones ached from the strain, but it would not win. Aziraphale poured all his will into his own to keep his car and body together, not speaking anymore. Neither of them had the strength to by now. Even thinking was a nightmare. 

_Stay together. _

_Just fucking stay together. _

_The car is fine. I am fine. Aziraphale is fine. Everything is fine._

Pain flared through him, muscles tearing. He screamed, surviving only on sheer stubbornness and spite. His jaw hurt. His hands hurt. Everything hurt. Aziraphale took the wheel for him, helping him push the accelerator. 

Ahead. 

An exit sigh. 

They drove faster.

Almost there. Barely visible through the inferno, a curb stretched to the right. 

There! 

Finally! 

The car nearly tipped over with the force of their turn. One more push, one more shout, and they were free! They burst through the wall of fire into a road beyond. Crowley didn’t know where it led to, but he didn’t care. They’d figure it out soon enough. 

“Oh thank heaven,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley winced but didn’t complain. He had no energy to. Besides, it was a habit. Aziraphale couldn’t help it. 

“Look,” Crowley said, pointing at a lonely police car by the side of the road. There were two cops inside, gaping at the fire. 

Hysteria bubbled inside Crowley, aftershocks of nearly been burned alive, but who cared? As they passed the police car, Crowley raised his hand in a cheery wave, grinning, having the time of his life. The humans gaped at him like he was completely insane, which he probably was, but he would revel in it until he had no more strength left in his body. Which would be soon, by this point, so why not enjoy it?

“Well, that was terrible,” Aziraphale said as Crowley took a sharp turn to the right. “I’m amazed we made it out. And we’re going in the right direction. Good.”

Crowley checked the sun’s location in the horizon and smiled.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Check that out. I know how to get us there from here.”

A bizarre feeling of wellbeing and contentment settled over him. Probably more hysteria.

“I feel giddy,” Aziraphale said. “Do you feel giddy?”

“Yup.” Crowley popped his lips as he spoke. “Are you doing that or am I?”

Crowley felt Aziraphale shrug.

“No idea.”

He sounded drunk. Crowley giggled, falling against the wheel.

“Stop it,” Aziraphale said, even as he laughed along with him, both sounding like demented teenagers who’d eaten the fun brownies. 

Something in the car cracked and a wave of heat hit Crowley in the face. Shit. The car was still on fire. Crowley focused his energy again, Aziraphale joining him. The car settled, gaining speed, but the flames continued to scorch its frame, dancing on the edges of the windscreen.

“I don’t have enough strength to put the fire out,” Aziraphale moaned.

Crowley grit his teeth, inhaling increasingly shallow breaths before giving up and slumping in his seat. 

“I don’t, either. But it will hold. It has to hold. I’ll be damned if she doesn’t get us to the end of the world.”

“Not to point out the obvious, but…”

“I know. I’m already damned.”

Aziraphale shifted inside him, repositioning himself now that he no longer had to hide away from Hastur, that bastard. It was a weird sensation. There was no getting used to it. Crowley shook his head, trying to clear it, but it was no use. Aziraphale was no less distracting now than he was when this started, and that wasn’t likely to change until it was too late to matter. If they managed to survive this.

````````````

Somehow, that infinitesimally tiny chance of survival came through. The Antichrist decided that he liked humanity and the Earth exactly the way it was, and rewrote reality so that Satan was never his father to begin with. He even gave Aziraphale a new body. Some warning would have been nice, though, before Aziraphale was ripped away from him, leaving Crowley gasping and weak at the knees as his soul reordered himself in his body, weeping for the loss of Aziraphale, who had been clutched so closely around him. But Aziraphale hadn’t left him. He was here, standing right next to him, blinking in confusion as he felt his torso to verify that he was whole and solid once more. Crowley reached for him without thinking, grasping his shoulder, relieved to feel him under his hand. Aziraphale met his eyes, relief shining in them, as well, along with something else that they most certainly did not have the time to talk about. 

It wasn’t until after their new, human acquaintances gave them a ride back to the village that they had time to address the feeling of loss than itched in their souls since they had been separated. Not that Crowley wasn’t happy to have his natural features back, as well as being free of the risk of bursting into flame and divine light at any second, but Aziraphale was now too far from him. He was right here, never more than a few feet away from him since they’d been separated, yet it was still a few feet too many to endure. While Crowley’s body had felt too small with Aziraphale shoved inside him, now the opposite was true. His soul stretched out, savoring the luxury of space even as he mourned the lack of Aziraphale beside him. As irritating as it had been to have a backseat driver, Crowley couldn’t shake the ache of loss from his spirit. 

He was being ridiculous. Completely over the top. He was just tired. The stress of all the crap and life-threatening pressure that had pummeled them today had his emotions out of whack, that was all. Aziraphale must be loving it, though. Having a new body. Being able to move whenever he wished. Not having to put up with Crowley’s demonic soul making him break out in a spiritual sweat. 

After saying their goodbyes to the humans, they walked to the nearest bus stop to wait for the next train to Oxford. A London one wouldn’t come by here until tomorrow morning, so rerouting this one would have to do. But before that, the delivery person who had handed the sword, crown, and scales to the horsepeople would come by to pick them up. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale had called him. They just _knew_, just like the delivery man would just know. 

“How is your new body?” Crowley asked, slouching on the bench next to Aziraphale at his usual distance. 

He had almost sat down closer but had restrained himself at the last second. Although, Aziraphale had seemed to lean a little closer when Crowley did so, but Crowley might be imagining things. Even with his standing in heaven destroyed, Crowley wouldn’t put it past Aziraphale to hold himself back from him and his devilish wiles. 

“It feels the same as the last one,” Aziraphale said, looking down at himself and feeling his left arm. “I wasn’t even aware that anything was happening until it did. Suddenly, I was just here, outside of you.”

“Was that uncomfortable?”

Now why had Crowley asked that? His desperation was showing, but what did he have to hide from Aziraphale anymore? 

“A bit.” Aziraphale frowned as he considered the question. “My spirit is having a little trouble keeping up with being discorported, then suddenly reincorporated. I’m going to need some time to settle. I feel bloated, like I’ve had too much to eat. How are you faring?”

Like Aziraphale took a piece of him with him.

“The opposite of bloated. My body feels a little too big now. Having you squashed inside me wasn’t actually that bad.”

“I did feel a bit squashed. But you’re right. It wasn’t that bad.”

Aziraphale sat up straighter, his intertwined hands shifting in his lap.

“I, uh…” he muttered. “I could use a drink.”

Crowley groaned, throwing his head back. 

“Heaven, me too.”

Aziraphale miracled a bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape, uncorked it with a loud pop, and downed a long swig before handing it to Crowley, who did the same. 

“Um,” Crowley moaned. “That hits the spot. What do you say to getting drunk when we get back to London?”

“It’s tempting.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale the bottle back. Aziraphale drank again before putting it down on the bench between them. 

“I’m sorry about the car,” Aziraphale said. “I know how much you liked it.”

Grief panged in Crowley’s chest. He gripped the tire iron at his left side, the only memento of his prized vehicle. She had been so much more than a car. More like a full body glove, an integral part of him that had now been burned away forever, just like so much of him had been through the millennia. 

“Perhaps if you concentrated really hard,” Aziraphale said, trying to be helpful.

“It wouldn’t be the same.” It wasn’t worth even picturing it. A hollow, imperfect copy of his old Bentley. “I had it from new, you know.”

Aziraphale tilted his head down in sorrow.

“I do, yes.”

A heavy silence settled between them.

“It all worked out for the best,” Aziraphale said, focusing on the positive like he so often did. “Just imagine how awful it might have been if we’d been at all competent.”

“Point taken.” 

They’d probably all be drowning in the boiling seas right about now. Aziraphale drew out a burnt slip of paper from his pocket. It looked like it came from a book.

“What’s that?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale handed him the paper. 

_When alle is sayed and all is done, ye must choose your faces wiseley, for soon enouff ye will be playing with Fyre._

Huh. Playing with fire. Was that literal or metaphorical fire? Was it meant for them? Why would Aziraphale have it if it wasn’t? It must have fallen off as Crowley threw the book to Anathema at the airbase.

“So that was the final one of Agnes’s prophecies?” Crowley asked.

“As far as I know.”

“And Adam’s human again?”

“Again, as far as I can tell. Yes.”

“Angel. What if the Almighty planned it this way all along? From the very beginning?”

The idea had been nagging at Crowley since Adam had put a stop to Armageddon. There had been too many “accidents” involved in this affair, including Crowley sending the baby to the wrong room, for it to be a coincidence. 

“Could have,” Aziraphale said, grabbing the wine bottle. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”

He took a deep swig, a cautious expression frowning in his eyes. After 6,000 years of Crowley pressing him to question the system, that he shouldn’t just take it for granted that God and heaven were in the right because they said so, Aziraphale had said “fuck you” to the whole thing. Yet now there was a spot of hope in his eyes again. Not for heaven. They were still bastards. But God… 

Fuck, Crowley was too tired and confused for existential questions right now. He had begged God to show him a great plan, to not test humans to destruction, and she hadn’t in the end, but had that been her plan? Or was it just free will? Did they have free will after all, or was it just an illusion like Crowley had feared in his darkest moments? 

He opened his mouth to ask Aziraphale, but just then a mail van pulled up. Never mind. He’d ask later. The deliveryman, who Crowley sensed hadn’t been so alive a few hours ago, took the apocalyptic items away. As he was pulling away, the rumble of a bus sounded from their left.

“There it is,” Aziraphale said, frowning at the bus. “It says Oxford on the front.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said, “but he’ll drive to London. He just won’t know why.”

Sometimes Aziraphale protested about these manipulations when it inconvenienced someone, but not tonight. Instead, Aziraphale looked down at his lap with a sorrowful air.

“I suppose,” he said, “I should get him to drop me off at the bookshop.”

Crowley’s gut pinched. Aziraphale couldn’t have simply forgotten this. It must have been so painful that he blocked the knowledge from his mind. 

“It burned down, remember?” Crowley said, regretting that he had to be the one to tell Aziraphale this, twice. Aziraphale’s face pinched with grief and he clutched his legs with his hands. He may not be nestled within Crowley anymore, but Crowley felt his agony all the same.

“You can stay at my place if you like,” Crowley said, hoping that Aziraphale would accept.

Aziraphale turned the most regretful, sorrowful look his way.

“I don’t think my side would like that,” he said softly.

“You don’t have a side anymore,” Crowley said as gently as he could. “Neither of us do. We’re on our own side now.”

Aziraphale turned away, facing forward as the bus pulled up before them. His gaze was lost somewhere much further off than the vehicle in front of him, a place that he had staked his entire existence on only to discover in the most brutal way possible that it had all been a con. God may have secretly planned not to destroy her creation after all, but heaven was as corrupt and hollow as Crowley had always warned him it was. As frustrated as Crowley had been by Aziraphale’s blind obedience to a bunch of hypocrites, he wished that there had been some way to spare Aziraphale this pain. But there was none. Such existential realizations always broke the soul. 

Crowley stood up.

“Come on,” he said, stepping toward the bus. 

Aziraphale’s jaw tightened, then he sucked in a deep breath, stood up, tugged his waistcoat down and joined Crowley by the doors. He strove to mask his sadness with a plain expression, but it shone in his eyes nonetheless. They miracled modes of payment and swiped the cards on the till, Crowley first. As he was about to choose a seat near the back, Aziraphale slipped up behind him and touched his left hand. Crowley halted mid-step, turning towards him, startled, his silent question met with one of Aziraphale’s own. Aziraphale’s fingers curled around Crowley’s thumb, asking for permission for that which Crowley had fantasized about for so long that the vision had grown as palpable as the ground under his feet. He nodded, a jerky motion, and Aziraphale completed the act, intertwining their fingers. His warmth enveloped Crowley, not as fully as when Aziraphale had inhabited his body, but so close to it that Aziraphale must be projecting himself towards him. Crowley’s breath stopped, his eyelids dipping at the sensation, gratitude swelling inside him. 

The bus jerked forward. Aziraphale fell into Crowley with a loud “oof!”. 

“Let’s sit down,” Crowley mumbled, stumbling into the nearest seat.

Aziraphale followed him, both plopping down. If Crowley’s heart could beat, it would be dancing the samba right now. Aziraphale’s hand remained in his, the burst of his spirit that had grazed him earlier hovering atop his skin, a luminous haze just bright enough for Crowley’s demon eyes to perceive while the humans around them remained unaware. Aziraphale turned nervous eyes toward him.

“Is this alright?” he asked, turning the humans’ attention away from them.

Crowley huffed in relief and disbelief.

“You really need to ask that?”

Crowley clutched his hand tighter, projecting his own spirit toward Aziraphale in turn, brushing him lightly where their hands and legs connected, pressed snuggly on the seat. A beautiful smile lit up Aziraphale’s face. If he shone any more brightly, the humans would notice.

“We are on our own side,” he said. “I should have always known that. I’m so sorry.”

Crowley shook his head.

“Don’t apologize.”

“I need to.”

“You don’t. I felt your regret already when you were in here.” Crowley pressed a hand to his chest. “That’s all I need.”

Aziraphale peered at him with such remorse that it pained Crowley in his very soul. Aziraphale wanted to say more, to beg forgiveness, Crowley’s refusal barely holding him back. His throat aching, Crowley tugged Aziraphale’s hand up and kissed it, lingering on his knuckles. Aziraphale sucked in a breath. 

Crowley tensed. Had that been too much? 

Aziraphale’s eyes shone with love, his whole soul brimming with it. Oh heaven. If Crowley weren’t already sitting down, his legs would have collapsed under him.

“We’ll talk more later, okay?” he said, barely managing to squeeze the words out.

Aziraphale nodded, as eager and overwhelmed as he was.

“Yes,” he gasped. 

They clung to each other’s hands for the next two hours as the bus slowly made its way south, for Aziraphale wouldn’t agree to Crowley’s reasonable suggestion that it head straight for London so that they could get on with the conversation tensed between them. Fine, so it might be a little mean to not let the humans around them get to their homes first. Crowley was a demon, so that shouldn’t matter to him, but he didn’t have a job with hell anymore. He didn’t _have_ to do anything. He could open up an orphanage if he wanted to. Not that he would, but it was an option that hadn’t existed before. Unless heaven and hell killed them both, in which case, never mind. 

The instant that the bus pulled up to Crowley’s building, they hopped to their feet and hurried out, still holding hands. The handholding continued as they went inside, took the lift, and stopped in front of Crowley’s door for Crowley to fetch the key out of his pocket. Aziraphale fidgeted at his side, the fingers of his right hand wiggling in what Crowley hoped was excitement. 

“I’ve never been here before,” he said, sounding excited, at least.

Crowley had invited him once, but this wasn’t the time for recriminations. He pushed the door open and stretched out his left arm, bowing in a grand gesture.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he said. 

An amused smile jerked on Aziraphale’s lips.

“It’s hardly humble,” he said.

“Like your bookshop is.” 

Crowley led him down the featureless, grey-white corridors and down to his study. Except that said study was blocked by a slim puddle of holy water and a smudge of melted, red bucket. Ligur’s body had completely evaporated.

“Oh,” Aziraphale uttered as he frowned down at the remains of what had been a truly blood-curdling incident. 

“Yeah, it was bad,” Crowley said, shuddering internally at how close he had come to oblivion if he hadn’t taken the proper precautions. “Could you do me a favor and clear this up, please?”

“Of course.”

With a snap of Aziraphale’s fingers, the water and melted plastic vanished. Crowley breathed more easily. 

“I really should say ‘thank you’, though,” Crowley said, remembering the bittersweet moment when Aziraphale had given him the holy water. “I told you it was for insurance.”

Aziraphale’s hand shifted uneasily in Crowley’s as he looked away, conflicted chagrin tensing his face. 

“I realize that,” he said. “But I couldn’t be sure, could I?”

Crowley gulped at the pain in his voice. He clenched his jaw, wanting to simultaneously flee the room and tug Aziraphale to him in a firm embrace. 

“I wouldn’t do that to you,” he said.

Aziraphale turned to him with a heartbroken look that made Crowley’s insides hurt.

“You shouldn’t not do it for me,” Aziraphale said, pleading. “But for yourself. I can’t bear the thought that you…”

Aziraphale’s words failed. He swallowed, looking down at the floor with an expression of utter unhappiness. Guilt burned in Crowley’s belly, but he didn’t… He hadn’t ever…

“Where is this coming from?” Crowley said, clinging to Aziraphale’s hand more fiercely than ever. “I’ve never contemplated doing that.”

“Haven’t you?”

Crowley shuddered like someone reached inside him and _twisted_.

“I felt your soul,” Aziraphale said, raising his right hand to Crowley’s face, softly touching his cheek. The pleading brush of his fingers almost undid Crowley. “I felt joy at being reunited with you, yes, but also such pain. It crushed me. I’d seen it so many times in your eyes. I always hoped that you would speak to me about it, that you would unburden yourself, but I never wanted to press you. To act as if I were entitled to know. I also didn’t want to know.”

Aziraphale sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, his eyes growing shiny. Crowley groaned. He couldn’t take this anymore. How could he be making Aziraphale this miserable?

“I never tried anything,” Crowley said, removing his sunglasses so Aziraphale could see the truth in his eyes. “Never thought about trying anything. Not once in the sixty years since you gave me the holy water did I contemplate using it on myself. Believe me, please.” 

Crowley grasped Aziraphale’s nape, begging, hating himself for making Aziraphale feel so wretched. Aziraphale sucked in a shaky breath and nodded.

“I do believe you. If I’d truly thought that you might use it on yourself, I would never have given it to you. I would have found some way to convince you to let the matter go. But I still feared… I felt your pain, Crowley. I felt it. You wishing that you didn’t exist. How is that not the same? How can you feel that if you don’t want to—”

“I thought I lost you. It must have been the residue of that. That’s all that was.”

“So you didn’t want to live when you thought me gone?”

“Of course I didn—”

Fuck. It was too late. He had stopped himself too late. A tear slipped from Aziraphale’s eyes as he groaned in despair, covering his mouth with his hand. He stepped back, letting go of Crowley’s hand. Oh, no. Crowley’s heart sank to the bottom of his stomach. He opened his mouth to beg Aziraphale, but Aziraphale rushed forward and pulled him into a firm and desperate embrace. 

“You can’t,” he whispered, his voice broken against Crowley’s neck. “You mustn’t ever. _Please._”

Crowley sank his face into Aziraphale’s shoulder, tears pricking his eyes as he gripped his back, seeking the comfort of his soul reaching for him. 

“I wouldn’t,” he said. “I promise you I wouldn’t.”

“Please don’t think I don’t understand. Do you know how many times I’ve worried about hell finding out about us? About what they would do to you? The thought of living on without you is unbearable. Rejecting you at the bandstand was like tearing out my heart. But I know you’ve felt this before. You aren’t as good at hiding this as you think.”

Crowley’s breath seized. Fuck, he was close to crying. He didn’t want to cry. But Aziraphale’s hand was so gentle in his hair, his pleading so heartbreaking, his love bursting out of him like divine light blessing and burning him at once. 

“I never meant to do anything,” Crowley moaned.

“I believe you. I do.”

Aziraphale clicked his fingers. Crowley’s desk and chair pushed themselves against the wall, giving way to a wide bed that materialized in the middle of the floor.

“Oi,” Crowley protested. “You can’t just shove my stuff around like that.”

“I’m sorry, my dear, but I need to sit down and so do you, and I don’t think we can make it to your bedroom.”

Fair point. Crowley allowed Aziraphale to tug him down to the soft mattress. He sprawled on his back immediately, eyes closing, more drained than he had felt in 6,000 years. He tugged at Aziraphale’s hands. Aziraphale didn’t waste a moment lying beside him and curling at his side, wrapping an arm around Crowley’s chest while propping himself on his left elbow to look down at him, face pinched with agonized concern. His eyes were bloodshot and shiny with unshed tears. Crowley reached for him, cradling his face. Aziraphale gasped, one of the tears slipping down his cheek. Crowley brushed it away. Aziraphale was in pain and it was his fault. 

“Has life here,” Aziraphale asked, “truly been so horrible that you would prefer non-existence?”

Crowley shook his head.

“No. Especially not with you. But I can’t help it sometimes. Feeling down. Everything hurting. Wanting to sleep the decades away.”

“It’s why you sleep so much, isn’t it?”

Crowley nodded, lowering his hands to Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“It never happened before I fell. Shocking, I know.”

Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s side, fingertips brushing his skin in soothing circles. 

“It’s depression, isn’t it? It isn’t only a human illness.”

Crowley looked up at the ceiling, dejected.

“Yeah. And it’s not like I can take a pill to make it go away. I tried that. Tried all of them. But there’s the small detail about human physiognomy being just a little different from ours.”

Aziraphale’s face fell even further.

“I’m so sorry, my dear. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Crowley smiled. He touched Aziraphale’s face, brushing his hands through Aziraphale’s hair. Oh, how he had yearned to do this through the centuries. Aziraphale would have never allowed it yesterday, yet now he leaned into the touch, eyes slipping shut, turning to nudge Crowley’s wrist with his nose. 

“You help,” Crowley said. “You always have. Just you being here. I don’t need anything else.”

“But I have been remiss. I truly am so sorry for how I treated you. For abandoning you. Lying to you. I was unworthy of your trust.”

Crowley’s mouth moved soundlessly for far too long.

“That did hurt, not going to lie,” he said in the end, choosing not to brush it away as he had before. “I thought I must have done something to mess it up. And I did, didn’t I? By falling. I’m lucky you were willing to speak to me at all.”

“You were right to ask questions. I know that now. I’m the one who was in the wrong. I should have listened to you.” Aziraphale lied down on his side. “I should never have trusted heaven above you.”

Crowley turned on his side as well.

“About that,” he said. “How are you doing after rejecting heaven?”

Aziraphale’s eyes clouded with pain.

“I’m alright,” he said.

“You’re not. This emotional transference went both ways. You were freaking out. Feeling betrayed. I know the feeling well. You know I do.”

Aziraphale frowned at him, then sighed, expelling all the air in his chest.

“I suppose you do,” he said. “Although there is a chance that God planned it like this all along, so my trust might not have been completely misplaced, after all. You suggested it yourself.”

Crowley was too tired to argue. Besides, Aziraphale was right.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore. I haven’t in ages. Who knows what she’s thinking. But heaven. The other angels. You agree now that they’re corrupt hypocrites, don’t you?”

An agonized look crossed Aziraphale’s eyes as he nodded.

“I’m afraid so. That realization may take some time to settle.”

Crowley rubbed his arm. 

“Take all the time you need. Although…”

Aziraphale frowned.

“We may not have that much time,” Aziraphale said. “They won’t let our insubordination pass unchecked. That must be what Agnes’s final prophecy is about.”

“Let me see it again.”

Aziraphale pulled the slip of paper from his pocket and handed it to Crowley, who read it over. 

“For soon you’ll be playing with fire,” he read out loud. “I think it’s both metaphorical and literal. Metaphorical for me. Hell is probably going to try to dump holy water on my head. And literal for you.”

Aziraphale frowned, alarm and disbelief twisting his face with fear as he pushed himself up as if trying to distance himself from the horrible truth of it.

“But…” he uttered, barely above a whisper. “That would mean… hellfire. But heaven wouldn’t. I have been loyal for over 6,000 years. I only wanted to save people. If God herself did plan all this, then they can’t.”

Crowley sat up, folding his legs under him as he reached for Aziraphale’s shoulders, trying to massage the tension out of them. 

“God lets heaven do whatever they want,” he said softly. “You know that. I’m so sorry.”

“They would actually kill me,” Aziraphale begged Crowley with his eyes to tell him that it wasn’t true.

Crowley nodded, fury and sorrow churning in his stomach. A despairing breath gasped from Aziraphale’s throat, then anger flared in his eyes.

“No,” he said with a firmness that could cut steel. “I will not be murdered. Neither will you be. They aren’t the good guys. I thought they were, but I was wrong. So, very wrong. We are in the right.” Aziraphale gestured between Crowley and him. “They are selfish and callous and completely full of themselves. We will not let this stand.”

Crowley grinned. Oh, how he loved seeing Aziraphale angry at someone else, all righteous fury and angelic rage.

“That’s the spirit,” he cheered, grabbing the prophecy and raising it. “This is how we do it. We have to choose our faces wisely. Which means…”

“We need to switch,” Aziraphale finished for him. “Changing our appearances should be easy enough after sharing one body.”

“It needs to be perfect. Not one hair our of place.”

“Oh, we can manage that, surely.”

Squeezing Crowley’s hands, Aziraphale lowered them between them, a look of concentration on his face.

“Shall we give it a try, then?” he asked.

Crowley nodded.

“Let’s go for it. We can’t do any worse than bursting into flame and divine light at the same time.”

Aziraphale shuddered, grimacing.

“Yes, let’s never do that again.”

They straightened their backs and squared their shoulders, focusing on each other’s eyes. Crowley concentrated on the feel of Aziraphale’s spirit within him, the curl of his white-blonde hair, the softness of his face, the length of his frame. Aziraphale began to shift before he did, blue eyes changing to yellow, his pupils lengthening. Crowley felt the change within himself with a gasp. His spine shortened like someone was pressing down on his head, but it wasn’t painful like when Aziraphale had sought refuge within his body. His form changed all at once, frame thickening, teeth suddenly unfamiliar in his widening jaw. He looked down at himself, breath stopping as he saw the cream hues of Aziraphale’s outfit atop his barrel-shaped chest, their hands now switched, Crowley bearing Aziraphale’s while Aziraphale bore Crowley’s. He followed the slender line of the mirror image of his form up Aziraphale’s arms to his face, which was Crowley’s own face. 

“Whoa, that’s weird,” he said, frowning at his own confused eyes. 

Oh heaven, Aziraphale’s voice had come out of his mouth.

“Yes, quite,” Aziraphale said, sounding exactly like Crowley. 

They leaned forward, hands pulling apart as they stood up to examine each other from head to toe. 

“I feel a bit unbalanced right now,” Aziraphale said, peering at the top of Crowley’s head. 

“Just a bit? Because I’m freaking out. Is that really what my face looks like?”

“It must be, unless I did something wrong. Although you also look strange.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed further before he snapped his fingers in realization.

“The mirror image problem,” he cried. “We never see our faces the right way round. In a mirror, they’re flipped.” 

Aziraphale smiled in relief, shoulders sagging.

“Yes. Quite right. That would also account for our voices. You don’t sound quite like I know my voice, but I’ve never heard it spoken at me, instead of from me.”

“I have.” Crowley grinned. “You sound exactly the same as when you were speaking through my mouth.”

Aziraphale smiled, delighted. Wow, it was so weird to see Aziraphale’s smile on Crowley’s own face. 

“Excellent,” Aziraphale said. “Have you a mirror? I want to see what I look like as you. Without the bursting into flame part. Oh, we forgot to check.”

Aziraphale’s, or rather, Crowley’s wings, burst out of his back, as inky black as they should be. Crowley stretched out his own wings. His breath squeezed in his throat at their pristine whiteness. He hadn’t had completely white wings since before he fell. He could if he wanted to, but he chose not to. Why would he want wings that reminded him of the angel that he could never be again? 

“Are you alright, my dear?”

Aziraphale touched Crowley’s arm. That voice. Is was like Crowley was consoling himself. He shook his head, meeting Aziraphale’s eyes to reassure him. Except that Aziraphale’s eyes were currently Crowley’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” he said. “This is really weird, you know.”

Aziraphale smiled softly.

“I do know. It’s like looking at myself in a mirror when I’m upset. Except not quite. Is it the color of your wings that’s disturbing you?”

Crowley’s smile widened into a genuine one. Why had he bothered trying to hide it, anyway?

“I haven’t had white wings since before.”

Aziraphale rubbed Crowley’s arm.

“It’s only for a short while. I’m sure they will come for us soon. Then you can get these back again.”

Aziraphale flapped his black wings.

“How are those suiting you?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale frowned at them.

“They are very becoming on you, but they don’t suit me. Also.” Aziraphale pulled at his leather pants. “Must you wear your pants so tight? This is most uncomfortable.”

“This from the angel whose waistcoat looks like a balding man?”

Crowley touched the bare patches on what had once been a vibrant velvet fabric. Aziraphale raised his chin in offended pride.

“I like it,” he said. “Its imperfections give it character.”

“Well, my tight trousers give me character.”

“That character being ‘It’s a miracle that I can walk without bursting a seam’?”

“At least I don’t wear reading glasses I don’t need.”

“I like the aesthetic.”

“Well, this,” Crowley’s gestured at his clothes on Aziraphale’s body, “is my aesthetic, so deal with it.”

Aziraphale pouted for a moment longer before an amused smile curled his lips.

“I can think of worse things than being you for a day.”

A fond expression touched Crowley’s face. 

“You already were me for a day.”

“Yes.”

Aziraphale stepped close and took Crowley’s hands in his, regarding him with a warm smile that Crowley shared. Their spirts rose automatically toward each other, remaining in their bodies, but present enough to vibrate the air between them with a heady heat. Crowley leaned forward first and Aziraphale followed, their foreheads meeting in a loving caress that robbed Crowley’s breath away at the miracle of it. 

“They won’t take you away from me again,” Crowley said, throat tightening. 

“No,” Aziraphale assured him. “Nor will they take you from me. We’ll be okay.”

Crowley nodded, his nose rubbing Aziraphale’s cheek as he did so. He had to believe that.


End file.
